As always, beta love to my lovely friend, SaintDionysus.


Hermione stood close to the edge of the overlook, staring out into the expanse with the wind whipping her face.

She looked east to London.

The Ministry's policy was famous. Twenty-four hours to prove their usefulness before they die.

Even if it weren't for the confirmation of the event on Potterwatch, Hermione would know Ron was now dead. He would have let them flay him alive before he gave anything away.

She mourned her friend silently. Crying wasn't an option anymore, not that she didn't want to. She just hadn't been able to cry in years.

The dryness on her face mocked her. No matter what convention required, her sadness wasn't any less real because of it. Ron had been one of her best friends for nearly thirteen years. For over half her life, he had been a fixture in it. He always knew how to make her laugh, even when the days were darkest.

Now he was gone, and she couldn't cry. Another cruelty of this new world.

"Hermione?"

She turned around to find Harry emerging from the clearing in the trees. He smiled sadly at her. "Are you alright?"

"No," she answered simply. "And neither are you."

Harry approached her gingerly, knowing she liked to have her space. Finding no overt tension in her body language as he edged closer, he hugged her in a tight embrace. "I should have sent someone with him. I should have—"

"Don't do that. We both know it's bullshit. You did everything you could."

Harry wiped his eyes, and Hermione's eyes followed the motion jealously. "I should have torn the Ministry apart to get him back."

Her face hardened. "That would be the most impossibly thick move you could pull right now. It's what they expect. Please, just…" She sighed. She hated that in this moment of mourning, she couldn't help but feel a tad bratty at resenting Harry's self-pity. She loved Harry, but his hero-complex could, at times, be extremely grating.

Of course, his hero complex was the reason the Order still survived, so she couldn't complain too much. But she worried that Harry's backbone would one day be his demise, just like Ron's goodness had been his. If Ron hadn't gone on a supply run when Teddy Lupin came down with a fever, he'd still be alive.

Another man in her life she had lost.

"I know what you're thinking," Harry said.

"I very much doubt that."

He rubbed up and down on her arms. "You're worried he had something to do with it."

She froze. Until that moment she hadn't allowed herself to wander down that prickly rabbit hole. Losing Ron was bad enough. She couldn't imagine losing him at the hand of someone she lov…used to love.

The shadow of a tear threatened her, burning behind her eyes. "I hadn't thought, honestly."

Harry leaned in and kissed her lightly. "I don't want to upset you. But I feel I should tell you that my sources say he's recently been promoted to Lieutenant. That means he'll be leading searches from now on."

Any other man would stubbornly pretend their lover didn't have a past. Not Harry. He was too noble. He didn't begrudge Hermione's past love. He didn't even begrudge the fact that she probably still loved him to a certain degree.

Like Ron, he was too good for this world.

Hermione nodded, her eyes fixed on a spot in the clouds so far east, it might have even hovered over London. It was all she could do; focus on the spot.

Don't think about Him. Not today.

"Thank you for telling me, Harry." She slipped out of his arms and walked back through the clearing to camp. She knew he'd respect her need for space too much to follow her, though he'd desperately want to.

As much as she'd mastered compartmentalization over the years, she couldn't fight the thoughts that threatened to end her dry streak and unleash the dam of tears that had built up over the years.

Would He ever hurt her? She honestly didn't know anymore, but there was a time He had loved her. What they had was real.

It had to have been real.


He kissed the top of her head and hummed contentedly as his fingers danced delicately over her flushed, sensitive skin; skimming over her hip, making their smooth accent over her stomach, before deftly cupping her breast. She bit her lip to stifle a giggle. He was such a guy.

His eyes were wistful and focused on the movement of his fingers as they skipped over her flesh. "You have the softest skin," he said in his sex-smoothed voice.

Her heart skipped several beats. She hadn't been expecting compliments that didn't pertain to her sexual organs or performance in bed. He threw her slightly off guard. "Um...thank you."

He chuckled throatily. "You're welcome, Granger," he said in a deep, clipped voice that took on an amused tone of formality.

"Don't make fun of me. You bullied me for years about my hair, my teeth, my—"

"No need to remind me. I was there too." He sighed. "Merlin, you are shite at pillow talk, you know that?"

"Oh, so is that why you're being so sweet to me right now? Pillow talk?"

He rolled his eyes and pulled her as close as possible. They were skin to skin with nothing between them except the everything they were becoming to one another. "I have a lot to make up for. All those years I teased you were wasted." He kissed her lightly on the lips before pulling back and capturing her eyes with his. "You're goddamned beautiful." He leaned in and stole another kiss from her, this one deeper. "I'm sorry if I ever made you feel otherwise."

All the blood reserved for her brain traveled to her face. She couldn't move except for the involuntary parting of her lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

He grinned from every corner of his face as he strummed the pad of his thumb across her cheek. "You're very polite after sex. Maybe I should just always keep you in a post-coital haze."

She rolled her eyes and laughed. "Bet you'd love that, wouldn't you, Malfoy?"

He smiled serenely at her and tucked a curl behind her ear. "I'd love to have you any way you'd let me."

Hermione's insides fizzed in delirium at his words. As lovely as they were, what blew her away the most was the sincerity of the words. They meant more to Hermione than any words anyone had ever said before.

In the moments following their lovemaking, basking in the afterglow of Draco's disarming affection, Hermione felt as boneless and sated as she did during the peaks of the pleasure she had climbed only moments earlier with him.

He was so lovely like this.

She wished she could keep him always.


A nipping gust of wind clipped at her face, bringing her back to reality.

She shouldn't torture herself with the past. Gone were the days she could stand in the sun with no fear. This cold, gray forest was her life now. No use pretending otherwise.

She sighed in frustration. She had promised herself she wouldn't think of Him today. Fighting a bubble of disgust with her self-indulgence, she sat on a log in a clearing to gather her bearings.

Things were bad. There was no denying it. Losing Ron wasn't just personally devastating. It would be a setback for the Order. Those who were left looked to herself, Ron, and of course, Harry for guidance. Harry might have been the icon, but Ron was the light. He had a way with people that neither Harry or herself possessed. He managed to keep spirits up when the days were bleakest. He knew the names of every single person at their camp, and a fair few at the others scattered across Great Britain. He threw birthday parties for the children. He was always the first to volunteer for supply runs.

Now he was gone. Who would fill his shoes? No one else had his obstinate hope; his boundless internal assurance that they would ultimately win this war.

Now he'd never live to see it happen.

Rocking back and forth on the log, she felt her body tremble the way bodies did when one wept. But the tears still wouldn't come. Her head was fuzzy, her body shook with nervous energy, and she even felt the wet burn behind her eyelids, but still, no tears came.

"Fuck!" she angrily threw a rock into the distance.

This was wrong. All of it. Ron was supposed to be here with them. She and Harry couldn't do this without him.

She had always joked that together, she, Harry, and Ron made a full person. Harry was brave, Hermione was clever, and Ron was good.

Bravery and cleverness might get them to the finish line, but they needed goodness to win the war. They needed to know that they would still be human beings after all was said and done. They needed hope. They needed a reason to keep fighting. The goodness within people—Ron's goodness—it was a personification of everything they stood for.

"How do we get it back?" she asked no one. "Why should we bother?"


An hour or so later, Hermione made it back to camp. The second she pulled back the flap to hers and Harry's tent, her body froze.

"What are you doing?" she asked the dark-haired man as he stuffed a rucksack full of several days worth of food provisions, a blanket, several pairs of socks and pants, his toothbrush, and a water bottle. His Firebolt lay purposefully next to the rucksack on the cot.

Harry bit his lip sheepishly. "Hermione, I—"

"Don't bother answering. I know what you're doing." She wanted to hurt him for it, but she knew it wouldn't be what Ron would have wanted. She wanted to thrash and punch and make him bleed. Surely he wasn't serious. Perhaps it was just the grief. He wasn't in his right mind. But grief or not, Hermione was not feeling very judicious with her sympathy.

"Could you for once try not to make a stupid decision? This is what they want! It's exactly what they were hoping to accomplish in giving him such a public death. If you go now, you'll just playing into their hands."

"Hermione, I have to do this."

"Bullshit. That's what you always say when honor calls. And I always sit back and let you do whatever stupid thing you're going to do because I know you're too goddamned stubborn to be talked out of it. But today I won't sit back and watch you hand yourself over to them. I won't lose you too, Harry."

Harry sighed. "Don't you want revenge, Hermione? They killed our best friend!" his voice was cracking either from grief or exhaustion. Hermione didn't care either way.

"This is war, Harry. People die. There's not a single person in the Order who hasn't lost someone they love. If it's revenge you want, there will be a time for it, but this is not it."

"Hermione, I—"

"Please."

She let that one word hang between them for a moment. He seemed startled by it. It wasn't often he saw her this vulnerable. "Stay. I need you."

For a minute, she thought she really might cry. She felt like it. She felt like throwing herself on the cot they shared and wailing into the pillow for the next few hours. But she didn't. All she could do was stay glued to the spot with her brown eyes, glassy from the tears that refused to fall, and beg him to choose her in this moment.

He sighed. "I'm sorry." He kissed her softly on the lips. "I promise I'll be back." He kissed her again, harder this time. He didn't seem to mind that Hermione wasn't responding to his touch. "I love you. I'll be back before you know it. I promise."

Several minutes passed after he left before Hermione moved or spoke. "You can't promise that," she said to the empty room. "Nobody can promise anything anymore."


Harry told himself that Hermione would understand, but he didn't need to be a genius to know it wasn't true. She felt he had abandoned her.

He would just need to be careful. Hermione always told him he took too many unnecessary risks. She assumed he didn't listen when she admonished him for it. But he did listen. He knew he had a reckless streak, and he knew he needed to keep it in check.

Apparition was too risky. There was no guarantee his normal spots hadn't been discovered. His London contact disappeared months ago, so he had no one on the other side to make sure he was clear. Flying, however, under the guise of a Disillusionment Charm was foolproof. It would be a long journey, and he would be exhausted by the end of it, but it was safe. And Hermione needed him safe.

As he mounted his Firebolt and began his journey, he realized he didn't exactly have a plan.

Harry, you fuckwit, the internal voice that sounded an awful lot like Hermione chastised him. You think you can just barge in the Ministry and start slaughtering Snatchers?

Well…yeah. That was sort of the idea. And in addition to the fact that it would be extremely thirst quenching, it would be useful to the Order in the long run.

The Snatchers were a problem. They were a brotherhood of half-feral spies who got off on the fear of their prey. The Order had lost three times as many good people to the Snatchers than they had the Death Eaters.

But the Death Eaters had structure in their ranks. They had a purpose. An ideology. They had a leader.

The Snatchers just liked the smell of blood. They were scattered. Their leaders were purely symbolic. There was no hierarchy in the Snatchers. They recruited the most depraved, the least subtle. Many blood-thirsty bastards who didn't have the blood status to take a Mark became Snatchers instead. Their inferiority complex was their hallmark, and it made them dangerous. The few Snatchers who were based in the Ministry would have been involved in Ron's capture. That fucking creep, Rowle, was undoubtedly directly responsible. Harry's hands seized the handle of his broomstick till Harry could see the whites of his knuckles.

Rowle. He hated the man almost as much as he hated Voldemort. Rowle had a reputation of depravity. He liked to watch his victims squirm—women particularly. He liked them young, vulnerable, scared. It was no secret that Rowle's dearest ambition was to get his hands on Hermione—to break the Mudblood Bitch. The Order spies who were able to gather the precious little information they could on Rowle, reported back to Harry his most defining characteristics: he was relentless, he was certifiably insane, and he lusted like the devil after Hermione Granger.

A fateful trifecta.

Harry wanted to rip his spine from his body.

He breathed deeply, trying to calm his temper. Hermione wouldn't want him to burst into the Ministry guns blazing, and that's exactly what he'd probably do if he didn't cool his hot head.

Hours later, when he finally arrived, he dismounted in a narrow alleyway, several blocks away from the Ministry. Shrinking his broom down to a more compact size, he stored it in his rucksack and refreshed his Disillusionment Charm. Carefully, he walked until he approached the side of the most famous building in Great Britain; The Ministry of Magic.

The building that had been known, until seven years ago, as Buckingham Palace.


Draco rolled his eyes as he rounded the corner to Snatchers' Division. He swore as he got closer to their domain, the air smelled more like wet dog. Fenrir Greyback was the Head Snatcher, and Draco would have bet half his fortune that mangy old fuck marked everything in this wing with his scent. For one wild moment, Draco had a momentary urge to whip out his cock and have a piss right on the doorframe of the Division marker.

Greyback would go mental.

But as much as inciting the wrath of that glorified guard dog would delight him, Draco had other matters to attend to. He sure as hell wasn't anxious to spend more time than necessary around the Snatchers—a bunch of hammerhead arse-grabbers with perpetual chips on their shoulders.

As a Death Eater Lieutenant, he was senior to all Snatchers and even had a few placed directly under his command. Thorfinn Rowle was one of them. It was he Draco came to see, as Rowle was the one who caught Weasley.

Draco knew nothing about the man, never having believed the Snatchers to be people of much consequence in the Dark Lord's new order, but he hated him already on principle alone.

A man who could catch Weasley was a man who could catch Her. Weasley might not have been the brightest bulb in the drawer, but he had still managed to elude the Snatchers for seven years, all while bearing the weight of the target the Ministry had on his back. Those years had sharpened him from the dim-witted boy Draco knew in school. If Rowle caught him, Rowle must be good.

Draco would need to watch him.

He nearly ran into a large, imposing figure storming out of an office and charging into Draco's line of sight.

Draco drew himself up to make him feel taller and adopted the snootiest, most Malfoyesque sneer he could manage. "Greyback."

The werewolf snarled lightly. "Malfoy."

"That's Lieutenant Malfoy, now. Hadn't you heard?" Malfoy's eyes danced with mild mirth as he watched Greyback battle internally with whether it was worth risking the Dark Lord's wrath to defy Draco the respect he was owed. To Greyback, Draco would always be a pampered little whelp who coasted on his family's name.

"I heard."

"Of course you did. I'll bet you hear a lot with those ears of yours."

Greyback glared his response. All the better to sense your bullshit, you poncy little fucker.

How this man ever thought he could have been a Death Eater, was beyond Draco. Even a blind man could read that ugly face. Even Weasley had possessed more finesse. "I'm here to speak with Rowle."

"Rowle's on a hunt."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "When he gets back, send him to my office."

Greyback narrowed his yellow eyes at Draco. Draco leveled his face of all emotion, daring him to defy his order.

"Tempting, isn't it? To tell me to fuck off? You want to say you don't answer to a spoiled little pureblood brat like me, but even you are smart enough to know that isn't true. The truth is, you do answer to me, Greyback. So why don't you be a good dog and fetch Rowle for me when he gets back from his hunt?"

That was bold. Seniority or not, he didn't need to make any enemies—especially not one like Greyback. He might be a mutt bastard, but he was a vengeful mutt bastard who crunched on the bones of his enemies.

Fenrir growled low in his throat. "You think you're better than me, don't you boy?"

"Well," he smirked. "I am your superior."

"In rank, maybe. But beneath your expensive robes and fine name, you're just a butcher's boy. Same as me."

Draco raised a haughty eyebrow. He was right, of course. Lucius was a monster. He hadn't expected the werewolf to be that perceptive. "Will you give Rowle my message, or not, Greyback?"

The werewolf sneered. "Don't worry about that, Lieutenant Malfoy. I'll send your message." His lupine gold eyes bore into Draco's silver ones as he circled to pass him. When he broke contact, the air between the two wizards seemed to thin suddenly, each going about their business as if no confrontation had taken place.

Draco rolled his eyes. Bloody sensitive, isn't he?

He pondered all the possible ways Greyback could seek revenge upon him for his perceived insolence. Not a single one was enough to have made him regret it. On the contrary, he was actually looking forward to doing it again.

There was a time Draco Malfoy had swagger. He'd glide through the halls of Hogwarts, and all the girls would swoon while the boys moved out of his way. He could cut through another person's insecurities like softened butter. That Draco Malfoy always had a biting remark, a golden nugget of snark to throw in the face of those he perceived to be beneath him—which was pretty much everybody.

These days, he barely recognized himself. This Draco Malfoy was the errand boy of a demented half-blood lunatic—a job he'd inherited from his father. This Draco Malfoy kept his mouth shut and said not a word more than necessary in the presence of his colleagues.

As thoroughly repellant as he found Greyback—and all the Snatchers if he was being honest—he at least was able to regain a semblance of his old self in his presence. Draco was a Death Eater, a Lieutenant. Greyback was just a maggot at the top of the dung pile.

That said, he wasn't too keen to encounter him again on his way out of the Snatcher's Wing.

Ducking down a little-used corridor, he found himself nearly incapacitated when he encountered the unmistakable fragrance of fresh air and sweat.

Draco froze. He wasn't alone.

Over the years, he'd developed an unholy talent for watching his own back, as there wasn't a single person he knew anymore to whom he'd ever consider entrusting the task. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

Draco wasn't about to announce to that he had already discovered them. Instead, he continued, maintaining the same easy rhythm with which he always walked, and one hand at his side, fingers wiggling to grab his wand.

Draco's blood froze when the smell of unwashed-recently-outdoors-human grew stronger. Without breaking stride, Draco tuned into the subtle echo of somebody walking right behind him, keeping rhythm with him as he moved. He resolved to walk faster. The pitter-patter of a second pair of feet grew stronger.

He was being followed.

He walked even faster, and his invisible companion continued to keep up with him. He walked faster, vaguely aware that he probably looked utterly ridiculous.

The two of them continued to move in tandem at an increasingly swift speed until suddenly Draco halted abruptly in the middle of the corridor.

"Ooof," said the thing making contact with Draco's body.

Draco turned around, pewter eyes hard like smoky diamonds and pulled out his wand. "Petrificus Totalus."

Something roughly the size and weight of a large sack of meat hit the floor near Draco's feet. He clenched his jaw and uttered held his wand steady at the area. "Finite Incantatem."

The mystery companion revealed, Draco couldn't fight the gravitational pull of his jaw to the floor.

"Potter?"